


Cures for Burning

by stutter



Series: adventures in personal growth [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Begging, Biting, Blow Jobs, Choking, Coping Mechanisms that Could be Perceived as Mild Self-Harm, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Family Dynamics, First Time, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Internet Connectivity Issues, Kink Discovery, M/M, Masturbation, Roommates, mild d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stutter/pseuds/stutter
Summary: “He said,” Yuri begins, trying to sound cavalier, “Victor goes, ‘Otabek Altin needs to come here and smack the hell out of you,’ and.” He forces a laugh out of his gut and barrels on, like an idiot, “and I was like, good, please, I'd love that, sounds a hell of a lot better than this.”At that moment, either the Skype call fails or Otabek is stunned into a long silence. Yuri can feel his pulse in his eardrums. He thinks he might throw up. Why thefuckdid he have to say that? “Hey, ah, Beka?” he says. “Are you still there?"Otabek is motionless. Yuri’s terror hardens into rage. “VICTOR!” he bellows. “Your SHITTY INTERNET just went down again!”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a PWP but then I wrote, uhhh, a billion other words. Takes place about threeish years after the start of season 1. It lives in the same universe as the first fic in this series, but you definitely don't have to read that one first to understand this one!

Yuri has never, ever seen Victor this angry, and if he weren't so adrenaline-sick, hands shaking and jaw clenched shut, he might actually be kind of scared. 

“Have you _lost_ your _mind_?” Victor demands. His voice is high and tight like a plucked string. “What is _wrong_ with you? This isn't _ice hockey!_ Are you trying to _end_ his career, are you that afraid of him?” 

“Of course I'm not,” Yuri mutters, flushing to his ears. “Don't be stupid.”

Behind him, Katsuki is getting back to his feet post-collision, wiping the blood from his lip with the inside of his wrist. “I'm all right, Victor,” he volunteers, but he's looking at Yuri when he says it. “It was an accident.”

“ _He's_ not eighteen!” Victor says, pushing Yuri in the chest so he has to put his hands out for balance, careening backwards on the ice and turning it into a neat spin to regain a little dignity. Physics render the whole thing slightly absurd, but Yuri’s not going to point that out now. “He’s not a teenager like you! He goes down wrong one time, that's _it_ for him, you arrogant little brat. Is that what you want?” 

Yuri’s blood sizzles in his wrists, his ears. “He said he's fine,” he grumbles, feeling himself getting angrier by the minute, “so why don't you stop projecting on him and get on with the practice?”

Victor grins, bloodthirsty. His silver hair makes the redness of his face even more pronounced, rendering him a nest of pointy features, almost ugly. “Projecting, is that what I’m doing.” His voice is deadly calm. “I know I must seem impossibly old to you, Yurio, but you’re not as cute as you used to be. You’ve no idea how you look when you fight like this, with your words, your little tantrums, just like a spoiled child.”

“Victor, I'm fine,” Katsuki says, in a louder, firmer voice. “He didn't knock me down on purpose.” He skates between them, sketching out one of his elegant step sequences to demonstrate. “My career’s not quite over yet,” he adds mildly, “I don't think.”

Victor’s eyes cut over to Katsuki, then back to Yuri, whose tongue is full of venom he could spit right into those clear blues. “One of these days I'm going to charter a plane for Otabek Altin,” Victor says, turning away, “so he can come out here and smack some sense into you. Nobody else has the patience to deal with you.” 

Humiliatingly, Yuri’s mouth goes dry at his words and he’s robbed of any clever comeback he might have been able to construct. Victor’s already gone, gliding after his stupid pig husband with his head shaking. 

The way it feels - Yuri grits his teeth against it, the humming under his skin, Victor’s words buzzing inside him like an insect. He smothers the impulse to cover his chest with his arms, like he's walked out of the shower and found someone unexpectedly waiting in his room. Across the ice, Katsuki takes Victor by the hand and spins him playfully. Yuri hisses at the two of them, lost in their happy love story. “Fuck this,” he says aloud. “I'm done.”

What’s really awful - his fingers fat and numb suddenly as he tries to unlace his skates, the thought of Otabek bouncing around his skull - is how he's so fucking hard, so hard that he's dizzy, that he has to take in a few long gulps of air to steady himself before he storms out of the rink. 

\---

The pig finds him mid-sulk - no, not sulking, just tapping through Instagram and glaring at the traffic below - on the roof of the rink. The wind is bitterly cold and Yuri’s long hair whips over his eyes, briefly obscuring Katsuki from view as he comes closer. 

“Hey, Stallone,” Katsuki calls out. Yuri frowns, confused, thinking there’s been a mistranslation between them. Then he turns and sees Katsuki with his dukes up, shadow-boxing at him, humming the _Rocky_ theme. 

He huffs out a laugh. The pig’s making a joke, he realizes. Katsuki grins back, a little nervously, then puts his hands down by his sides. “But please don’t really hit me again,” he says in his slow, careful Russian, raising his voice to be heard above the wind. 

“It was an accident,” Yuri insists. He watches Katsuki’s steps as he comes toward him - with a twinge of guilt, he realizes the pig’s favoring his left leg. “Fuck, I actually hurt you, didn’t I?”

Katsuki shrugs. “I know it was an accident,” he says, “but you’re… of course it can’t be easy, with me and Victor all the time. I would probably want to knock me down, too.”

“Stop.” Yuri shakes his head. He can’t explain it, this itch under his skin, bad when he's alone and worse when he has to watch the two of them floating around each other, every glance full of music, hidden language. “It's just that your husband is a prick.”

Katsuki rakes his hair off his forehead, pensive. “You're not wrong, you know, about - he does…projecting on me.”

“Project, he does project,” Yuri corrects before he can stop himself. 

Katsuki makes an agitated noise, then switches to English. “You know what I mean. He pins his hopes on me. He does on you, too. He's only been retired a few months. He's not good at it yet.” He sidles closer, nudges Yuri gently. The contact makes him bristle, not sure if he wants to shove him away or nuzzle closer. “But he should be more patient, and he should - not tease you about Otabek, anyway.” 

“What do you know about it,” spits Yuri, shrinking back, his grip tightening on his phone like Katsuki’s going to try and read his browser history. 

The pig puts his hands up. “Just that I know what it's like, that's all.”

“No, you don't,” Yuri says, even though he can hear how he sounds, just as moody and young as Victor said, that asshole.

“Yurio,” Katsuki says gently, “if you think I never burned up like that, the way you're burning, you're so, so wrong.” He takes another step closer, leans in, but his voice stays as calm and soft as ever. “Your whole life is skating, it's all you have time to think about, but there's this thing in the back of your head making more and more noise every time you wake up. You think _I_ never felt that way?” He shakes his head; his eyes are doing the thing that Yuri still associates with his old Eros routine from years ago, sparkling with intent.

Yuri’s mouth opens, then closes. He's mortified to the point of nausea, but there's something almost like relief just in hearing Katsuki put it into words. He can't think of anything clever to say, so he just sucks his teeth and looks away. 

Katsuki draws back. “But what do I know about it,” he says cheerfully. “Really, the person you should ask is your friend Otabek. Maybe he’ll know some way to help.”

“Fuck off,” Yuri finally says, with a great burst of effort.

“Okay, bye!” sings the pig, dipping away from him and ambling back to the stairs down into the building.

\---

They’ve scheduled a Skype session for that evening, and Yuri opens the app on his computer but doesn’t press the call button, just stares. Because he’s not stupid, because - 

Maybe he has time to jerk off, really fast, before Otabek dials in, and he can just hold that crawling want at bay for a few minutes. In the kitchen, the pig is humming to himself as he cooks dinner, a noisy pop song on the speaker. It smells like maybe ramen, Yuri dares to hope. He closes his eyes, tries to shut out the sound and the aroma, lets his brain replay Victor’s words from earlier - _smack some sense into you_ \- 

When he was younger, Yuri was angry all the time, but he was mostly scared. Scared about outgrowing the talent in his body, scared about losing Grandpa, about Victor leaving him behind, about letting down Russia or Yakov or a million things. 

Grandpa’s been gone for a year, now, and Yakov’s recovering from some heart problem out in Sochi. But Yuri’s here, a small fortune of gold medals to his name, one of a long and proud line of Russian heroes. And he can't get _rid_ of Victor, no matter how much he tries. He's not scared of anything anymore. 

But he's still so angry, and he doesn't understand why. 

_I'm going to charter a plane for Otabek Altin, get him to smack some sense into you -_

The thought touches some piece of machinery lodged deep inside Yuri, resets him to bonelessness, makes his whole body an arrow pointing toward that goal. _God, I want that so badly, I want you to hit me so hard that I start making sense._ Yuri’s cock twitches in his sweatpants, and he jams his palm against it, letting out a soft breath. 

He pictures this one Instagram that Otabek posted a couple weeks ago: a shirtless, sweaty post-workout selfie, face characteristically stoic but for the hint of a raised eyebrow. Of course, Yuri had teased him for it - _my god, did you use a filter on this and everything? You total art-school reject_ \- but it hadn’t stopped him from jerking off to it twice that day alone. Now he imagines that calm expression hovering above his own face, the veins in those strong forearms bulging as he wraps a hand around Yuri’s fluttering throat and squeezes.

“Oh, fuck,” Yuri whispers, thrusting helplessly up against his palm. It’s easy to imagine it’s Otabek holding him down, Otabek’s hand slipping into his sweatpants, taking hold of him, murmuring, “I know what’ll clear your head right up -” 

The incoming call tone chimes out from his computer, bright and nonpartisan. Yuri’s breath leaves him in a choked gasp, arousal crowded out by panic. Otabek’s internet isn’t good enough to finish and risk missing the call, but if he picks up, what if it’s so obvious what he was doing, what he was thinking of? - 

He pulls himself together fast and hits Accept. He can see his own face, flushed and startled, in the smaller window, and then the pixels cohere and Otabek’s soft smile comes into view.

“Saw a really good cat today,” he says, by way of a greeting. 

Yuri laughs, surprised. Otabek doesn’t seem to notice how flustered he is, and that makes him feel calmer. “Describe it,” he says, clearing his throat, “in vivid detail.” 

“Very tiny,” Otabek says. “Black. Big yellow eyes. One white paw.”

Yuri feels his face stretch into a big grin, and Otabek chuckles at him. “Where was she?” Yuri asks. 

“You won't like this part,” Otabek says. “She was on the street. But she was eating a big slice of pizza, so I figured she was okay.” 

“Why didn’t you save her?” Yuri demands. Otabek shakes his head.

“If it were up to you, my whole flat would be full of stray cats,” he says. “I’d have hundreds of them.” 

“I don’t see your point,” Yuri deadpans, making Otabek laugh. In the other room, there’s suddenly a loud clatter, then an indignant squeal from the pig, then a high, musical giggle. Nikita nudges Yuri’s door open with her nose and streaks under his bed, fluffy tail flicking in the air like a plume of smoke. 

“Everything okay over there?” Otabek asks, craning as if he might see around Yuri into the rest of the flat. 

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Victor’s home,” he mutters, which explains all of the commotion in one fell swoop. “I swear to god, I’m going to get my own place soon.” 

“You tell me this every time we talk,” Otabek says. “You’re allowed to like living with them.” 

“I hate it here,” Yuri shoots back, and Otabek just smirks, shrugs one shoulder.

“I saw Victor’s video from your practice today,” he says. “Looks really good.”

Yuri’s ears get warm. “I didn’t even know he’d posted,” he says. Nikita peeks out from under the bed, and Yuri holds out a hand, beckoning her closer. “He was so pissed at me earlier.” 

“Hi, Nikita,” says Otabek. The cat leaps up onto the bed and slots herself behind the screen of Yuri’s laptop, where it’s warmest. “Why was he upset?” 

Yuri bites his lip. “I lost my temper,” he mutters. “I don’t know. I bashed into Katsudon on the ice and knocked him down.” Otabek doesn't blink. “It was an accident,” Yuri adds. “He's alright.”

“What about you?” Otabek asks. “Are you alright?”

“You don't have to be nice to me when I'm an asshole, Beka.” He realizes he's twisting a lock of hair around his fingers anxiously. Otabek raises an eyebrow. 

“If it was an accident,” he says, “then what's the big deal?”

“Exactly!” Yuri twists harder. “Ever since he finally retired he's been a goddamned nightmare. He wants to be all tough-love like Yakov, but he's -” He breaks off, shaking his head. His heart pounds in his throat. Shame is squirming in his belly like a trapped animal. “He said,” Yuri begins, trying to sound cavalier, “Victor goes, ‘Otabek Altin needs to come here and smack the hell out of you,’ and.” He forces a laugh out of his gut and barrels on, like an idiot, “and I was like, good, please, I'd love that, sounds a hell of a lot more fun than this.”

At that moment, either the Skype call fails or Otabek is stunned into a long silence. Yuri can feel his pulse in his eardrums. For a second he thinks he might throw up. Why the _fuck_ did he have to say that? “Hey, ah, Beka?” he says. “Are you still there?”

Otabek is motionless. Yuri’s terror hardens into rage. “ _VICTOR!_ ” he bellows. “Your SHITTY INTERNET just went down again!”

“Yura, I'm still here,” Otabek says quickly, just as Victor chimes from the other room, “You know where the router is, Yurotchka!”

Yuri drops his head into his hands. “Christ,” he mutters. “I thought…”

“You just - sometimes you say things like they're nothing.” Otabek flips his hair out of his eyes, tussles it restlessly. “But it's not nothing, and it knocks me off-balance.”

“Should I go check the router?” Katsuki calls from the kitchen. 

“NEVERMIND!” screams Yuri. Otabek is laughing at him now, and his face burns. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Don't be.” Otabek pauses again, but he’s shifting around. “But did you really say that?” he asks quietly. “You'd love that, that's something you - do you want that from me?”

Yuri’s stomach drops out. He's sizzling again. “I,” he begins, but he can't figure out how to go on.

Maybe it's strange that they don't talk about it. Ages ago, sure, when they'd just met - Yuri remembers with some mix of warmth and embarrassment how gently Beka had let him down. “Just be my friend,” he’d said, and Yuri’d been perfectly content to oblige. That had been more than enough for a long time. 

It's not enough now. Yuri supposes it hasn't been for a while. He looks at Otabek’s face, the strong lines of his cheekbones and lips, and feels a snapping hunger in his chest. But there, cold and familiar, is fear, too, fear of losing. 

“Yura?” Otabek asks. “Are you being quiet, or did we disconnect?”

“No, no, I…was joking,” he barely says aloud. 

“You were joking?” Otabek repeats. His tone is flat, could be disbelief or confusion or, worst of all, disgust. 

“I mean -” he can feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck. His hand shoots out and digs into Nikita’s soft white fur, stroking nervously. Oblivious, she rolls onto her back for a chin scratch. “I don't know. No. I don't know what I mean.” Otabek knits his fingers into a basket and studies them. Yuri’s throat tightens, like he might cry or scream. “Look,” he says tersely, “if you're going to stop talking to me I need you to do it all at once, okay, just hang up on me and finish the damn thing.”

“Why would I stop talking to you?” Otabek asks. Yuri wants to reach into the screen and throttle him. 

“ _Because,_ ” he grits out, “you're the one that just wants to be friends and here I am telling you to come to Russia and - and slap me around, or whatever, and it's _weird_ , I know it is.”

“Maybe it's weird when you say it like that,” Otabek concedes, rolling his eyes. The screen glitches, and Otabek’s frown deepens. He curses softly. “I've got to disconnect,” he says. “I can't eat up all the data for the month in one go. But - Yura. We’re good, okay?”

“Wait. Beka, wait,” Yuri blurts, “just tell me, I - I'm so sick of not knowing what you're thinking, you're so goddamned mysterious about everything.”

Otabek glitches again, then laughs. Half his face gets stuck that way, but the other half grows serious. “I don't mean to be that way,” he says. “You just have to ask.” He leans in close, and Yuri does too, inanely. Their faces fill his screen, Otabek’s steady dark eyes boring into him. “You m- ”

Then, all at once, the connection dies. 

Yuri jams his knuckles into his mouth and stifles a yell of frustration. Nikita gives him a blank look. He picks her up and cuddles her close. “I'm going to kill myself,” he tells her sweetly.

There's a soft knock at the door. “Yurio,” says Katsuki, “can you kill yourself after dinner, maybe?”

“Go away, Katsudon,” Yuri says, flopping down on his back. 

“I made enough ramen for three,” Katsuki says pointedly. “But I really don’t need an excuse to eat your portion, if you insist.” 

Yuri’s stomach grumbles. He gently drops Nikita on the bed and trudges out to join Victor and Katsuki at the table. Victor’s eyeing him, but he doesn’t seem angry anymore. 

“Itadakimasu!” he says proudly, and Katsuki repeats it, grinning at him. Yuri sort of half-heartedly presses his palms together before grabbing his chopsticks and attacking the ramen. He's embarrassed himself enough today trying to speak languages he doesn't know. 

“How's Otabek?” asks the pig, of course, once they're all digging in. Yuri busies himself chasing a piece of egg around his bowl. “Is he looking forward to taking bronze at the Trophée de France?” 

Victor lets out a shocked laugh. “He's going to destroy you,” Yuri snaps automatically, “or what's left of you when I'm finished.” Katsuki shrugs, smiling gamely at him. It's hard to be mad at someone who looks so proud of himself for even the most cursory trash-talk. Not to mention, someone who lets you eat their incredible cooking. There are moments Yuri knows he's lucky, where he lets himself feel the full bloom of this totally unearned kindness. He takes a deep breath. 

“I am sorry,” he mutters. “For earlier. Mouthing off.” He glances up at Victor, who looks completely stunned, making it almost worth it. “I hope you're okay,” he says to Katsuki. 

“I'm fine, Yurio,” the pig says, flushing. “I take harder falls all the time. Often in front of big crowds.”

“Yuuri, please,” Victor breathes. He reaches across the table and intertwines his fingers with the pig’s. “Yurio’s having a moment of personal growth, we must let him grovel.”

Yuri’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He drops both chopsticks, sending broth splattering. 

“I wonder who that could be?” Victor muses, chin cradled in the palm of his hand. 

“Would you shut up for once,” Yuri growls, whipping out his phone. 

_sorry for the bad timing_

Yuri laughs softly. _whatever, not your fault,_ he texts back. Ellipses dance on his screen, vanish, pop back up. Otabek’s choosing his words carefully. Victor’s launched into a whole routine now: “ _There’s_ our dear Yurotchka, I thought for a minute you two had done a body swap or something-”

“Fuck’s sake,” hisses Yuri. His phone jolts. 

_I always figured you were the one who wanted to just be friends._

“What?!” Yuri says aloud, then flushes. Katsuki looks concerned. Victor just looks amused. Yuri slides his phone back into the pocket of his hoodie, slurps up the rest of his broth, then stands, bringing his bowl and chopsticks to the sink. He feels the phone vibrate again. He forces himself not to look. 

“You both done?” he says instead. 

Victor blinks at him. “What's happening to you?” he demands. “Are you sick? It's not your night to do the dishes.” 

“We’re done, yes, thank you, Yurio,” Katsuki says loudly. “That's very kind of you, is what Victor means.”

He scoops up the rest of the dishes on the table and carries them carefully to the sink. His phone is still buzzing sporadically, afterthought after thought. His spine feels electric with tension. He shuts his eyes, breathes out, turns the water on scalding hot and thrusts his hands under it to wash the dishes. 

The body’s first, reptilian response to pain is to recoil, but Yuri knows well the reward of pushing through to the clarity on the other side. Skaters who fear pain have short, forgettable careers. Yuri watches his skin react under the steamy spray, angry red against the white of the suds. The buzzing subsides, and by the time he's washed the last chopstick, his hands have acclimated to the sting and he feels calmer. 

He finds the shape of his phone in his pocket, grips it tightly. Finally, he lets himself pull it out and read the slew of texts, his legs getting weaker as he goes. 

_thats not how I feel anyway_  
_still there tiger?_  
_oh it's dinner time isn't it_  
_sorry_  
_anyway since you asked, and if youre serious_  
_I want what you want_  
_whatever it is_

“Yurio,” Victor says, sounding like he’s in a distant room or another dimension, “what are you doing on the floor?”

_I mean anything yura_  
_please don't worry about sounding weird with me_  
_there isn't a single way you could think of that I don't want to touch you._  
_hope that’s helpful._

Yuri hears himself make a soft sound. His phone buzzes in his hand, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

_heading out for the night. sweet dreams. give the cat a stroke for me, or whatever's on hand. x_

“Fucking shit, Beka,” Yuri breathes. 

“You say something?” Victor asks breezily, stepping over him to reach the kettle. Yuri leaps out of the way and scrambles to his feet. “Want some tea?”

“No, I’m going to my room,” he says, way too loudly, and dashes out of the kitchen. 

Nikita’s weirded out by his frantic energy, and stalks out of his room as soon as he enters. Yuri shuts the door behind her and locks it. Then his legs give out, and he sinks down onto the bed.

He’s tingling all over, like his whole body’s fallen asleep and is just waking up now. He stares at the text in his hand, reads it over and over again to himself. _there isn’t a single way you could think of that I don’t want to touch you._ He pictures Otabek frowning in concentration, choosing each word carefully so nothing can be misconstrued. He can hear Otabek’s voice saying those words like he says everything, serious but offhand, like it’s easy, like there’s nothing to be scared or angry about.

He shudders, rolls over onto his stomach, presses his hips down into the mattress. 

It’s almost a challenge. Try me, Otabek is saying. There’s nothing wrong with what you want - I want it, too. 

He lets hips rock forward. His mouth falls open on a tiny gasp. Usually he can stave off pleasure for a while like this, keep himself right on the razor’s edge as long as he likes, until it aches, but tonight he needs it too badly. He slips his hand into his sweatpants and starts stroking himself, gritting his teeth against the sounds his mouth keeps trying to make. He can feel the damp spot on the front of his underwear against his knuckles; his cock is slippery with precome. He’s so turned on, so fast, it’s almost embarrassing.

Does Otabek do this - and think of him? Arousal floods through him at the thought, curling his toes. That last text - _or whatever’s on hand_ \- it’s so _wrong,_ so forward, so fucking sneaky. He knows Yuri better than he’s ever given him credit for, he knew it’d set him off, he’s - it’s like he’s practically right here in the room with him, his hand wrapped around Yuri’s, watching him with that dark, knowing expression - 

Yuri bites down hard on the blanket to stifle his whimper as he comes. He digs a pattern of crescent moons into his side with the nails of his free hand, grounding himself in the sensation. For a long moment, it’s totally quiet inside his head, a wall of pleasure and static. He catches his breath, lies still, enjoys the silence.

The first thought that floats through is a good one. Yuri rolls onto his back and stretches languorously. He paws across the bed for his phone, grabs it and opens up a new text.

_cat was being shy, so I had to improvise. hope youre somewhere cool._

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it, and promptly passes the fuck out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh WHOOPS I said it was going to be two parts and now it's going to be three. but that'll definitely be it!

The clock says Yuri’s slept for twelve hours straight. 

He wakes a in patch of early morning sun fully clothed, on top of his covers, phone dead in his hand. “Fuck,” he mumbles, rolling off the bed to plug it in. In the kitchen, he can hear Victor and Katsuki talking to each other in low, intimate tones. It is, as usual, completely disgusting. 

By the time he's showered, braided back his hair, and gotten himself a mug of tea, his phone is charged enough to display a couple new messages from Otabek, sent late last night. 

_sounds pretty nice._  
_it is cool here. you'd like it._

Then, there’s a short, grainy video: a dark and crowded club, pulsing with neon, the phone’s speakers blown out to static from the pound of the music.

Yuri grins. _think your night was more exciting,_ he types.

He only has to wait a second for a response: 

_would’ve rather been part of yours._

Yuri gawks at the screen. Somehow, the thought that keeps rolling over and over in his mind is that this can’t be that easy. There has to be a catch. 

“Yurio!” Victor raps his knuckles against the doorframe. “Practice time!” 

“All _right,_ ” Yuri sighs, following him out. Katsuki’s sleepily leaning against the kitchen counter, drooped over his own mug. His eyes brighten a little when he sees Yuri. 

“Look at this,” he exclaims. He yanks down the side of his warm-up bottoms, exposing a sharp, pale jut of hipbone.

“My god, you pervert,” spits Yuri, “why are you always trying to traumatize me?” 

“No, look,” he says, pivoting. Yuri sucks in a breath. His flank is bruised a deep, vicious purple. “From when you tried to murder me yesterday.” 

Yuri blushes. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I?” 

“I’m fine,” Katsuki insists. “It doesn’t hurt at all today. I just thought you might get some joy out of seeing the damage.” 

“You’re strong,” Victor says, carefully pulling Katsuki’s hips against his own. “To take a fall like that and keep going all yesterday. It must’ve hurt quite a bit.” 

“I don’t have time to get upset about bruises,” Katsuki says. “The Trophée de France is right around the corner.” 

The reminder sends a little thrill down Yuri’s spine. Only nervous wrecks like Katsuki get worked up about qualifiers. Yuri relishes the chance to beat a personal best, to intimidate his competitors, to stun the judges with his evolving strength, but never feels more than a cursory anticipation. 

But Otabek’s going to be there, and that gets his heart racing. 

Victor takes Yuri’s tea out of his hands and deposits it into a thermos. “Here,” he says, handing it back. “Take it to go.” He does the same for Katsuki, who leans in and drops a drowsy kiss on his lips. 

“Gross,” Yuri says, purely out of habit, and because it's the only easy way to describe how their affection makes him feel. 

It's no better when they reach the rink and Katsuki takes his first loose, lazy run of his short program. It’s to some song from an old movie played by a string quartet: hypnotic, intricate runs cascading over and over each other in a wistful frenzy. Katsuki, even marking it at half-strength, barely executing doubles where the quads should be as he wakes his body up, skates it with such longing and grace that Yuri feels it in his throat, a knot of yearning. He turns and glances at Victor, finds his eyes sparkling and his lips bitten tight around a brilliant smile. 

This is what he gets for living with a married couple, he knows, that flip in his stomach that sometimes means nausea, sometimes means - something close to jealousy, or want, or. He can’t always stop himself from catching these glimpses of their private life, the secret one they live when he goes to bed. Sometimes he doesn’t know if he wants to stop himself, and that makes him feel worse, sicker, and the cycle tumbles on. 

“That was okay,” Victor says breezily as Katsuki comes into his final pose, hands folded over his chest like he’s preparing to be entombed. “What do you think, Yuuri, could we try it again like you’re actually interested in medalling this time?” 

“What, you don’t think that was good enough?” Katsuki asks, feigning shock. He stretches his arms over his head, and his shirt rides up just enough for Yuri to catch a glimpse of that sinister bruise again. 

How gently Victor’d pulled Katsuki close this morning, so as not to hurt him. Yuri feels something inside him stir, that hot angular feeling. The burn, the pig had said. Yuri props his leg up on the edge of the rink and bends into it, as far as he can, until it hurts. He reaches into his back pocket for his phone while the stretch sinks in.

 _Katsudon’s got a real nasty bruise from yesterday,_ he texts Otabek. He bites his lip. _when I see you in a couple weeks I want you to give me some like it._

Otabek only revises the text once or twice, if the ellipses are anything to go on, before sending. 

_I can do that._ Then: _it’s funny you don’t want to start with maybe kissing or something._

Yuri’s chest constricts. _Funny._ Like sweet, or like strange, or…? Otabek - he must know that Yuri’s never even done that much before. Is it so obvious how little he knows? He imagines himself as Otabek must see him, a child stumbling around in oversized hand-me-downs, thinking it makes him grown. He forges on, trying to ignore his sudden nausea: _can’t i have both?_

Otabek responds almost immediately. _you can have anything you want from me, Yura._

On the ice, Katsuki lands a clean axel - a triple or a quad, Yuri isn’t sure. His face is alert now, focused, eyes finding Victor even as he spins and pivots, his whole body a declaration of desire and intimacy. He makes it look so easy. Yuri sees the way Victor’s mouth tips up, but from across the ice he must look serious, stoic. He’s fully in coach mode, or his best approximation of it. His eyes cut over to Yuri suddenly, snapping him back into the moment. 

“Well?” he says, eyebrows raised. “You warming up today, or do you want to just text Otabek from the bleachers during the Grand Prix?” 

“You’d love that,” Yuri says, switching legs and widening his stance so he can make his whole body one long, straight line. “You’d get to devote all your attention to your stupid Katsudon. Sorry, old man, you’re stuck with me.” 

“To my great dismay,” Victor laughs, turning his attention back to the ice. “Finish stretching and get out there. As long as you won’t go all Tonya Harding on Yuuri again.” 

Yuri snorts despite himself. “No promises,” he grumbles. Katsuki twists into a beautiful camel spin, seemingly just for the fun of it, and winks when he notices Yuri watching him. He looks away, reddening, then pulls out his phone one more time. _I want all of it,_ he types, with grim determination. He knows what needs to be done. _practice now. talk later. xx_

\--- 

He puts it off for as long as he possibly can. It's easy to throw himself into practice, polishing his programs until they gleam like diamonds, precise and deadly sharp. Oddly, not much changes between him and Otabek. They send cat pictures back and forth. Otabek shares music, mostly moody pop songs in every conceivable language, that he thinks Yuri will like - he's always right, which is almost irritating. Yuri sends unflattering snaps of Victor sleeping all over the apartment - anything to tarnish some of his remaining mystique, he says, but mostly just because he likes imagining Otabek’s laugh. 

The only difference is that sometimes he gets another kind of text, one that rattles his bones with nerves and a want so intense it makes him seasick. 

One night, when they're all watching a movie on the couch after dinner: 

_thought about you all day today._

Yuri types back, grinning to himself: _what did you think about?_

_how long your hair’s gotten since I saw you last._  
_what kind of sound you'd make if I grabbed a fistful of it and pulled._

Yuri swallows his tea wrong and keels over coughing on the couch. Nikita darts out of the way, meowing loudly in protest. 

“Tell Otabek hello from me and Yuuri,” Victor says dryly. 

“Shut up,” Yuri chokes out. But he texts back, as if nothing happened, _try it and see._

It's a little like trying to learn the rules of a game as you play it, and everyone else already knows how it’s done. Yuri mostly played by himself as a kid; he's always preferred practice to improvisation. Still, he’s not completely naive. He wakes up one morning, restless and horny from the remnants of some dream, and grabs his phone to take a snap of his bare chest, his hips, the jut of his cock in his pajama pants. _good morning,_ he captions it, and sends it to Otabek. 

A few minutes later, he gets a response: a wordless shot from the mouth down, jaw tensed, fist wrapped around his dick. 

Yuri stifles a noise. It is both better than he’s ever imagined and completely terrifying. _This is happening,_ he thinks, heart racing. _You do think of me this way, the way I think of you, we can do this to each other…_

The snap vanishes after a few moments, but it’s enough fuel for Yuri to start jerking off with a kind of desperate need. He’s close already when his phone rings a few seconds later. 

"Beka,” he says, unsteadily, when he picks it up. 

“Yura,” comes Otabek’s calm voice on the other end. “I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Oh, is that all,” Yuri says through gritted teeth. Otabek chuckles. Yuri can almost imagine his breath against his jaw. “Hi, Beka,” he says in a softer voice. 

There’s a pause. “How’s it feel?” Otabek asks lowly. 

Yuri’s head falls back. He knows he’s blushing, feeling exposed and vulnerable just from the sound of Otabek’s voice. He props the phone against his cheek. It’s cold on his flushed skin. “Feels pretty damn good,” he whispers. 

“Sounds like it,” Otabek says. “These calls cost a fortune, so we can’t talk long.” He sounds, if Yuri’s not imagining things, a little breathless himself. “But I’m not hanging up until I hear you come.” 

Yuri has to tighten his grip on the base of his cock so it doesn’t happen right then. “Fucking hell,” he breathes, trying to stay quiet so his roommates don’t figure out what he’s doing. The thought sends a wave of desire and mortification shooting through his body, powerful enough that a soft moan escapes him. 

“You like that, Yura?” Otabek is practically purring. “Like it when I tell you what to do?” 

“Yes,” Yuri gasps. “Shit, Beka, I’m -” 

“Yeah, c’mon, Yura, come for me,” Otabek rasps, and he does, panting and shuddering. Otabek makes a pleased sound, and for an absurd moment through the haze of orgasm Yuri feels... proud, for being the cause of that noise. 

“You - the way you, I want,” stammers Yuri inanely. 

“Have a good day,” says Otabek, all courtesy and business, and hangs up. 

“Beka, wait,” Yuri says, startled, but he’s talking to dead air. “Motherfucker!” 

He lies still, collecting himself. It’s real, now, more real every day, and in just over a week they’ll be in Paris, and they can - they can do all of this together, instead of just teasing each other from miles away. It feels a little like he’s waiting for a train that could take him somewhere distant and beautiful, or could also veer off the tracks and kill him instantly. 

He’s _scared._ And the fear makes him feel stupid, and that makes him angry. 

He’s put it off for long enough - he knows he’s running out of time to do what he has to. He slowly raises himself out of bed and goes into the bathroom, turning the shower on hot. The heat is reliable, clarifying. He breathes in the steam, rakes his fingers through his hair - it’s almost at his shoulders, bordering on inconvenient, but he's certainly not going to cut it now. Not before Paris. 

He slams the water off, slings his towel around his waist and pads into the cool air of the rest of the flat. One good deep breath, and then he lets his feet carry him to Victor and Katsuki’s room. He knocks. 

Victor’s out this morning, doing an interview for some sports radio program about the upcoming competition season. As a superstar in his own right, as well as the current coach and choreographer of two of the biggest names in the game, he’s in high demand on the press circuit. Since Katsuki goes over in fits of shakes and bizarre outbursts whenever there’s a mic nearby, and Yuri’s speech has been known to require a certain amount of censoring, Victor’s perfectly happy to talk for both of them. Reporters find him charming - surely, Yuri thinks, because they don’t know him all that well. And it gets him out of the house, which is helpful right now, at least. 

Yuri can hear Katsuki’s soft voice within, but he doesn’t answer the knock right away. He taps again. He can’t risk losing his nerve. 

“Yurio?” the pig calls out. “Come on in.” 

Yuri pushes the door open. Katsuki’s curled up in the middle of his and Victor’s huge bed with his laptop, grinning beatifically at the screen. He can hear a young woman’s voice coming from the speakers, saying something that makes Katsuki laugh. He responds in rapid-fire Japanese - all Yuri can pick out is his own name - and then there are a series of shrill, muffled screams. 

Katsuki grins up at Yuri. “Come say hi to Yuuko,” he says in English. “I told her that Yuri Plisetsky just walked into my room naked, and now the triplets are having a full-on panic attack.” 

Yuri feels ridiculous. “I should go - get dressed,” he says weakly, stepping back toward the door. 

“HI, YURIO!” Yuuko yells, making Katsuki laugh harder. Yuri sighs deeply but climbs onto the bed, holding his towel in place. He pokes his head in front of the camera. “Konichiwa, Yuu-chan,” he says carefully. 

“Listen to you!” Yuuko exclaims. He feels a little easier just seeing her beaming face, and grins a bit despite himself. “Has Yuuri been giving you lessons?” 

“Please, everyone knows that much Japanese,” Yuri scoffs. Katsuki smiles at him sideways. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says to him more quietly. “I can come back later.” 

“No, Yuri, it’s all right,” Yuuko says over the din of the triplets, who are now fighting each other to get a glimpse of Yuri and Katsuki on the screen. “I’ve got to go anyway, these little terrors have _homework_ to do - Takeshi sends his love!” 

Katsuki says something quiet and fond in Japanese as they disconnect. He closes the laptop and turns to Yuri. Without Yuuko’s face between them, it’s impossible to ignore how close they’re sitting on this giant bed, Katsuki in his t-shirt and sweatpants and Yuri in just his towel. “What’s up?” the pig asks, putting a little space between them. “Everything alright?” 

Yuri sets his jaw. “Okay, listen,” he says, absently pulling on a lock of hair, “I’m going to ask you something, but don’t you _dare_ forget that I taught you how to land a quad Salchow when you were even older than I am now.” 

Katsuki’s large eyes narrow, but his mouth quirks up. “All right,” he says slowly. 

“I'm better than you at almost everything,” Yuri emphasizes, “objectively.” 

“Okay, I don't know how _objective_ that is, but -” 

“And who knows,” Yuri continues, “how differently things might have turned out if I’d been the one to skate ‘Eros’ a hundred years ago, but it was you, and so…” Yuri takes a deep breath, inches toward Katsuki on the bed. The pig watches him, doesn't pull away. “I want you to teach me,” he finishes, masking his racing pulse under a steely, determined air. 

Katsuki watches him carefully. “Teach you,” he repeats, like a statement rather than a question. 

“Yes. How to…how to do that. Everything you know.” Yuri swallows, and then reaches out and rests a couple of fingers on Katsuki’s knee. Those big, dark eyes go wide suddenly, as he realizes what Yuri means. 

To his credit, Katsuki a couple of years ago would have probably jumped a foot in the air, screamed, left a pig-shaped hole in the farthest wall in his haste to get away. But he's changed since coming to Saint Petersburg. He's more relaxed, smiles more, makes more stupid jokes. Even so, he draws in a long, unsteady inhale, and says quietly, “Oh, Yurio, no.” 

“Why not?” Yuri dares to slide in closer, reducing the space between them to just a hand’s width between their faces. Katsuki looks something between stunned and apologetic. 

“There are - I mean, there are a _lot_ of reasons why not,” Katsuki says, “not the least of which being that I'm married.” 

“You honestly think Victor would care?” Yuri clings to his courage with an iron grip. “It's not a big deal. It's just - coaching, if you think about it.” 

“Yurio, this is really bad idea,” Katsuki says gently. He lifts Yuri’s hand off his knee, places it beside them. 

Yuri glares down at Katsuki’s fingers on top of his own. “You're that repulsed by me, you can't even fake it?” he mutters, trying to ignore his mounting panic. 

“Of course I'm not!” Katsuki goes bright red. His foot twitches like he wants to get up, run from the room, but he stays put. “I'm not...no. You’re not repulsive at all, you're...you're not. But that's just the point - I can't, I’d never want to _fake_ it - with you or anybody. It's not right. You've got to learn this stuff as you go.” 

“You don't get it!” Yuri says angrily. His voice is too big for the room, too sharp. 

“What don't I get?” asks Katsuki in a maddeningly calm tone. Yuri wants to knock him down again, harder this time, and that thought just makes him even more frustrated and confused. He pounds his fist on the bed. 

“I don't know anybody my own age!” he snarls. “When was I supposed to learn any of this? Between six hours of ballet a day and another four of homework? You don't understand at all, Katsudon, not all of us want to be celibate until we’re middle-aged -” 

“All right, well, I didn't _want_ to be celibate,” Katsuki says hotly, but Yuri forges on, fighting against the tightness in his throat. 

“And now - it's happening, and it's all I can think about, and I don't know how to - I don't _know_ anything!” The tension in his skull ratchets up suddenly, and Katsuki dives forward. 

“Stop that,” he says in a soft, firm voice. Yuri realizes he's been tightening the same strand of hair around his fingers the whole time; Katsuki has leaned in to free it. “You're hurting yourself.” The pressure dissipates at once. Katsuki runs his hands over Yuri’s scalp, face drawn and serious. 

Yuri feels his face crumpling, eyes stinging, too sudden and urgent to stop. “He's gonna think I'm so _stupid,_ ” he chokes out. 

“Oh, no, he isn't.” Katsuki shakes his head. “Nobody could think you're stupid, Yurio.” 

“I should've never said anything to him,” Yuri sniffles, swiping furiously at his eyes. “I've probably ruined everything, now.” 

“No,” insists Katsuki. “Otabek - he worships you. Anyone can see that. You couldn't ruin that if you tried.” He's still stroking his fingers through Yuri’s hair, and it feels aggravatingly good. 

“Don't,” he grumbles weakly, even as he droops forward. 

“Want me to stop?” asks the pig. Yuri shakes his head. Katsuki gingerly takes hold of his face and guides him to rest face-down beside him. He combs over Yuri’s scalp with his nails until Yuri’s breath gets even and the thudding in his chest quiets. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” he says in a low voice. “You did a crash course in Eros practically overnight. How hard can it be? Why won't you just teach me that, at least?” 

Over his head, Katsuki lets out a breath. “Because that wouldn't help you at all,” he says. “Because ‘Eros’ is just about confidence. It’s a performance. Sex - in the moment, actual sex, isn't a performance. Not - not in the same way, anyway.” He seems to pause to think, but his hands don't stop moving through Yuri’s hair. “I'm going to tell you something that you’ll hate hearing, and you'll make all kinds of awful noises about it, but here goes. I had no idea what I was doing during that program, really, until Victor and I started - until we were together.” 

“I'm going to be sick,” says Yuri emphatically, muffled by the blanket. 

“I know, I know. But it's true. Because - I was forming the words, but I didn't speak the language. You understand? Being in the moment with him, it’s not like - I could never explain this right. But there’s no way to _practice_ for intimacy, Yurio, because it's - it's intimate. It's personal. You can't try to act your way through it; you have to let your guard down, let yourself be surprised. But please trust me when I say, surprises can be really nice.” Yuri rolls onto his side and looks up at Katsuki. He's smiling, but he doesn't look smug or amused - not at Yuri, anyway. “Besides,” he adds, “on the most basic level, you don't want your first anything to be with me. Do you really want to be thinking about me when you're with someone else?” 

Yuri snorts. He can think of worse things, if he's being honest, but out loud he just mutters, “Gross.” 

Katsuki laughs and musses Yuri’s hair up some more. “Just lie there and be quiet,” he says lightly. “You remind me of Makkachin with all this hair.” 

Yuri feels a little pang at the name, even a year on, though he knows it's far worse for Katsuki and especially Victor. He rolls over, butts his head up against Katsuki’s leg. “That's what this is all about, isn't it,” he says dryly. “You let me stay here because I remind you of your old dog.” 

“Oh, that's definitely what it is for Victor,” Katsuki says seriously. “Me, I just enjoy your positive attitude and charming personality.” 

Yuri stifles a laugh. Katsuki brushes hair off his face, smiling down at him. Then, there’s the sound of a key clicking into the front door down the hall, and Yuri bolts upright. 

“If - if you tell him about this, I’ll have you murdered,” he hisses. Victor would never let him live this down. “Please, Katsudon.” 

“Tell him what?” asks Katsuki innocently. “Although you’re the one lying naked in our bed.” 

Yuri darts out, towel clutched fervently about his waist, into his own room to throw some clothes on. He can hear Katsuki laughing through the wall, but it doesn’t make him as mad as it should. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the music I'm fruitlessly attempting to describe for Yuuri's short program would be "Mishima: Closing" by Philip Glass. I have no idea if a young Japanese man would ever skate to a song from a film about a controversial figure like Yukio Mishima, but it's such a gorgeous and lyrical piece, I couldn't resist. 
> 
> surely Otabek's cool international music taste is pretty all over the place, but some of the artists I imagine him sending to Yuri are Christine and the Queens, Flash Flood Darlings, and Majical Cloudz. 
> 
> ok that's all. thanks so much for reading. feedback is huge and appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it's like three times as long as I intended but this is the end for now! any of the artists mentioned in the last note make good listening for this chapter, particularly "Byeol" by Flash Flood Darlings. ok. enjoy.

There's a moment, as Yuri finishes another run of his free skate - death drop into endless combination spin, one hand extended to the heavens and and the other clutched over his throat for his final pose - that he knows beyond a doubt that he's going to take the whole thing this year, all the way up to Worlds. He can see it in Victor’s stifled, surprised grin, in Katsuki’s dropped jaw. He and the pig have never stopped nipping at each others’ heels, knocking each other down to silver back and forth for the last three seasons. But this year belongs to Yuri. It flares inside his gut, crackles with excitement down his legs all the way to his toes. 

He comes off the ice so Katsuki can practice his woefully inferior program, sliding his blade guards back on. There’s a short string of texts from Otabek waiting for him when he pulls his phone out of the pocket of his discarded jacket. 

_i think im going to fly to paris a couple days early_  
_it’s an expense but i can spare it if im careful_  
_would you come with me?_

Yuri’s heart stops. 

_we could do some sightseeing before your Angels show up_  
_eat some local food_  
_or we could just hang out in the hotel_

His ears are ringing. He reaches up to twist a strand of hair before he remembers he’s tied it all back, and ends up sort of lightly punching himself in the neck. His thumbs linger above the keys on his phone - he can't construct the words. His throats spasms; is he about to laugh, or scream, or pass out on the floor of the rink?

“Katsudon,” he blurts, before he can think better of it. He stands and rushes to the edge of the ice. The pig’s wheeling in graceful circles, warming up on the other end of the rink. Yuri takes in a breath. “ _Katsudon!_ ” he yells. Katsuki turns toward him. “Come here! I need you.”

Katsuki just stares. Yuri throws a hand over his eyes. “Please,” he grates out.

“Yurio!” Victor skates over to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” says Yuri. Katsuki crosses the ice to join them, lips tilting up in a grin. 

“What is it?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.

Yuri looks between him and Victor. Victor and Katsuki look at each other. Yuri exhales through his teeth and holds up the phone for Katsuki to see. He squints at it. “This isn’t fair,” he says. “I can barely read your crazy alphabet with my glasses _on_ , you know this -” 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Victor sighs, snatching the phone out of Yuri’s hand. 

“Don’t -” Yuri starts, feeling color creep up his neck, but Victor holds up a long finger. A slow smile spreads over his face as he reads. 

“ _Yuuu-ri_ ,” he sings. “Otabek is trying to spirit Yurio away for a romantic rendezvous before the Trophée!” 

“Tell me what to do,” Yuri says. “Do I go?”

“Do you _want_ to go?” Katsuki asks patiently. 

“Of course I do! But - but what if this whole thing has been an elaborate sabotage?” Yuri asks, voice rising in panic. 

“Does anyone have a pen?” Victor asks, patting down his pockets. “I think it might be good for posterity to write down somewhere that on this date, Yurio begged Yuuri for _love advice_ , I think that is something the world would want to celebrate in future years.”

“Victor,” Katsuki chides, fighting a grin. Yuri ignores this, though his face heats up even more. Katsuki turns to him. “Sabotage?” he repeats. 

“Maybe he's trying to destroy me,” he says desperately. “Maybe he's trying to knock me off-balance so he can take gold.”

“Silver,” Katsuki corrects. “I'll be taking gold.” He turns to Victor. “At the beginning with you, did I ever sound like this?”

“No, my love, you were one billion times worse,” says Victor, pulling Katsuki close and pressing a kiss to the side of his face. Then he, too, turns to look at Yuri. “Otabek Altin is not trying to sabotage you,” he says seriously. “You are.”

Yuri opens his mouth, but Victor continues right over him. “He adores you,” he says. “You're good for each other. You inspire and make each other stronger. But real strength comes from being vulnerable. This is true on the ice and off.” Victor reaches out and presses Yuri's phone back into his hand. “You're brave, Yurotchka. You're one of the bravest people I know. But sometimes to be brave means to attempt a difficult jump, and sometimes it means to trust another person with your heart.”

Katsuki smiles at him in a way that can only mean did-I-not-say-this-exact-thing, but he doesn't speak. 

Yuri looks down at his phone. “I'm not trying to sabotage myself,” he mutters. 

“I'm sure you're not _trying_ to,” Victor points out. “But you've been a wreck for weeks now. And if you think it won't affect your performance in Paris, you're dead wrong. You know exactly what you want, Yurio. Just go.” He looks at him expectantly, and with a surprising lack of condescension. 

“But it’s also okay to not be ready,” Katsuki reminds him gently. 

“I am _dying of how ready I am_ ,” Yuri hopefully does not yell. Katsuki skates away backwards, waiting until he's at a safe distance to giggle at him. 

Yuri bites his lip. He opens a new text. _yeah I think I can switch my flight,_ he types. “All right,” he mumbles, hitting send. “I've done it.”

“Wonderful!” Victor claps him on the shoulder. “Now, are you done interrupting my practice with your boy problems? Or do we all need to sit down for a bit and have a long cry about it?”

“You’re one to talk about crying,” snaps Yuri. “I watched you go to pieces over an ad for a shoe store the other day.” His phone buzzes - just a thumbs-up emoji, which is somehow even more reassuring than words. He grins at it, even as his stomach seems to be practicing its own program of jumps and combination spins. 

\---

Yuri tries to sleep on the plane, but every time he starts to drift he jolts upright in alarm, as if someone’s tried to push him out of his seat. The old lady in the seat beside his keeps sighing at increasingly ridiculous volumes, like nothing in her sad life has ever been so inconvenient before. As if they're not flying from Russia, the worldwide capital of being inconvenienced. He tries to watch a movie on his phone but keeps catching himself staring out the window in a daze and needing to rewind. He watches the same scene four times before giving up. He finally contents himself with deleting old text messages, leaving only the most recent. 

From Katsuki on the group text they share with Victor, in the very grammatically-correct Russian he's been practicing: _Let us know when you land. And call if you need anything._

From Victor, sent seconds later: _we love you yuriooo! see you soon!_

From Mila: _get some yurotchka!!!_ followed by a barrage of suggestive fruit and vegetable emojis.

From Yakov, who only learned how to text so he could keep in touch with his skaters and is still getting a handle on it: _WATCH FRE ELEG DONT B SLOPPY MAK ME PROUD -YAKOV_

It’s all extremely embarrassing. Yuri saves a screenshot, suppressing a smile. 

He's been traveling all over the world to compete since he was a child, but this is the first time he's ever gone anywhere alone. Back then, he felt wise and grown-up, proud of all he'd seen and done. Now, he feels so young he’s convinced everyone on the plane can see it, a cloud of inexperience hovering around him in the air. 

What if, when Otabek sees him, he doesn’t want him anymore? What if, outside the clean lines and bright colors of his Instagram feed, Yuri looks less appealing? 

What if Otabek can tell he’s afraid?

Miles below, the cloudy grey outline of Paris comes into focus. Yuri studies it from his window, trying and failing to discern landmarks. From this height, all cities are identical. It's only on the ground that they populate with faces, street names, memories. Yuri closes his eyes as he feels the lilting descent of the plane taking him closer, and waits to touch down. 

\---

He’s wrestling his giant suitcase off the conveyor belt when he spots Otabek, and narrowly avoids crushing one of his toes with it as their eyes meet. 

Otabek’s hands are in his back pockets, hood pulled up. He vaults off the wall he’s leaning on and starts crossing the baggage claim in long, certain strides. 

Are they supposed to hug? Should Yuri try to kiss him? He stands paralyzed, watching him draw closer, brain full of static. 

“How was the flight?” Otabek asks. After months and months of only hearing him through computer speakers or the fuzzy treble of the phone, his voice sounds endlessly deep and warm, like a hot spring where Yuri could soak away all the tension in his limbs. He balls his hands up tight to stop himself trying to throw his arms around Otabek in a mawkish swoon. 

“Not too bad,” he says. “I really pissed off the old lady sitting next to me.”

“Mm.” Otabek’s eyes crease in amusement. “She probably deserved it,” he says thoughtfully. The spell of nerves is broken - Yuri laughs, and Otabek’s posture seems to loosen. He bumps his shoulder against Yuri’s, looking him up and down. “You got taller again,” he observes. 

“You stayed about the same,” Yuri says, cocking his head. Otabek chuckles. He reaches out and takes Yuri's case from him, turning on his heel toward the exit. 

“I hope that suits you,” he says over his shoulder.

“I think it does,” Yuri says, too happy to be anything but honest. 

Otabek hails them a cab and gives the name of their hotel in what seems to be passable French, as far as Yuri can tell. In the backseat, he rolls down the window enough to let the chilly air stroke his hair over his face. If he shuts his eyes, it feels almost like being on the back of a motorbike for the first time - terrified, exhilarated, maybe a little in love already. The thought, prismatic: _I don’t know where he’s taking me._

But Otabek always seems to know the way. 

_He’s never taken me anywhere I didn’t want to go._

“You tired?” asks Otabek.

Yuri opens his eyes, rolls his head to the side to look at him. He shakes his head. 

Otabek’s whole focus is on Yuri’s face. “Hungry?” he asks. “Bet the food on the plane was pretty bad.”

He hasn’t eaten in hours, but food is the last thing on his mind. He shakes his head again.

“We can put your stuff in the room and figure it out from there,” Otabek offers. The sentence on its face is totally innocuous, but Yuri’s lungs rise into his throat all the same. 

“That sounds good,” he says quietly. He takes a breath and nudges his hand forward. Otabek considers it with a jungle cat’s wary eye. After a moment, he splays his own hand toward it, and their fingers brush. An inch further, and they’ve intertwined. 

Neither of them says anything. Otabek’s fingers gripping his own are warm, strong. Yuri dares to imagine how they'll feel mapping his waist, his bare shoulders. His face flushes. All his clothes are suddenly too tight, suffocating him. 

Otabek says, in barely more than a whisper, “I never thought this was something I could have.”

Yuri tightens his grip on his hand. “Me?” Otabek strokes his thumb over Yuri’s knuckles. He nods, once. Yuri swallows hard. “You can,” he says, or breathes, or mouths. “I want you to have me.”

The cab slows and then stops. “Mérci,” Otabek says roughly, dropping Yuri’s hand so he can dig in his pocket for a few bills for the driver. 

“We’re here?” Yuri asks dumbly. Otabek smiles. 

“Come on.” He opens the door and goes around the back to grab Yuri’s suitcase. 

Yuri sucks in air. Somehow, his legs work enough for him to slide out of the car and follow Otabek into the hotel. 

“It's not the official one for the Trophée,” Otabek says, sounding almost apologetic. “But it was what I could afford.”

Yuri wouldn't have noticed if the hotel lobby had been covered in black mold and also on fire. “It's perfect,” he says. It is. 

There's a tight, creaky elevator, then a long, narrow hallway, old floral wallpaper and faded carpet. Then there's a door with three peeling numbers, and Otabek saying, “Here we are.” 

The room is small, but one wall’s got a window in it, letting in a blondish stream of afternoon light. Taking up most of the space is a bed, smaller than Victor and Katsuki’s but a lot bigger than his own back in Saint Petersburg. He turns and looks at Otabek, who glances away. 

“Probably I shouldn't have presumed,” he says, messing up his hair and then smoothing it again. “I'm - I can sleep on the floor, I could still do that.”

Yuri takes his coat off and drops it on the floor. “Don't,” he says. His heartbeat thunders in every limb, but he finds enough coordination to toe his shoes off and crawl into the center of the bed. Otabek leans against the wall, watching him. He reaches behind his back to bolt the door without taking his eyes off Yuri. “What?” Yuri asks. 

Otabek slides off his own jacket and hangs it over the doorknob. He crosses the room and sinks down onto the edge of the bed. “You,” he says, in a voice that’s all smoke and nighttime, “you are beautiful in a way that I can’t always understand.” He reaches out and brushes a fall of hair off Yuri’s face, tucks it behind his ear for him.

In his career, Yuri’s skating has been praised as beautiful. So has his dancing, his form, his precision. He’s been called cute a lot. His screaming young fans say he’s sexy, which is always humiliating. 

Yuri leans his face into Otabek’s hand. Otabek thinks he’s beautiful.

“You’re shaking,” Otabek says. His voice is impossibly tender. “Is this happening too fast? I’m sorry, Yura, please don’t be afraid. We don’t have to do anything at all, we can just -”

“I’m not afraid,” Yuri says. Otabek slides closer. 

“I’m just going to do this, now,” he murmurs. “And you can tell me, you can tell me if you don’t like it, if you want me to stop.” He angles Yuri’s face up towards his own and kisses him softly.

Yuri experiences exactly one second of panic - _am I doing this wrong, am I doing enough, should I do something differently?_ \- before his body takes over and his mind turns to glass. His hands wrap around Otabek’s neck, pull him in close. He’s trying his best to keep breathing, but it’s hard when it feels like being kissed this way is all he needs to live. Otabek finds Yuri’s waist with one arm and scoops him up easily, pulls him straight into his lap. Yuri gasps in surprise, breaking the kiss.

“Is this okay?” Otabek asks in a rush. “I’m sorry, are you alright?”

Yuri doesn’t have the words to answer, so he just nods, furiously, and kisses him hard. Otabek relaxes at once, slinging his arms around Yuri’s hips to keep him in place. He opens his mouth, brushing against Yuri’s lower lip with his tongue, making Yuri jolt with electricity. He’s always been a fast learner. If it feels good to him, it’ll probably feel good to Beka, too. He mirrors what Otabek’s doing, parting his lips to deepen the kiss. He’s not expecting how it hits him when their tongues slip against each other - never realized how much distance there was between them before, knowing now they can get this close. A soft sound escapes him, and he’d be embarrassed except for how he can feel Otabek’s smile pressed to his lips. 

“Nice?” Otabek asks, nudging his nose against Yuri’s. “You like this so far?”

Yuri nods. _Nice_ is an understatement, a joke of a word held up against the way this moment feels. “I like it,” he says hoarsely. Otabek pulls him in for another kiss, and this time Yuri opens his mouth for him automatically, shivering at the first swipe of tongue against his own. It’s intimate, achingly so, completely unfamiliar. He’d never thought of Otabek’s mouth more than the rest of him, and now it’s like it’s the only thing that exists. He wants to feel it on every part of him.

He’s so fucking hard, he’s on fire with it.

He can hear the way he’s making these little sounds every time Otabek leans in for another kiss, can feel how he’s starting to gasp and wriggle against him, everything getting magnified and prickly. Otabek must notice, too, must know - 

“Yura,” Otabek rasps, “could I - can I touch you?” 

Yuri’s eyes want to roll back at just the words. He pushes forward, nods into Otabek’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he whispers. 

“You want that?” Otabek asks. His hand goes to the back of Yuri’s neck, very gently using his hair to steer their faces back together. A chill goes through Yuri at the sensation, and he kisses Otabek once to stop another moan from escaping. Otabek’s eyes are serious and focused. “Listen,” he says quietly, “you're in control, yeah? You can say stop at any moment, no matter what we’re doing, and I will, understand?”

Yuri lets out a stuttering breath. “Yeah, got it,” he agrees, jaw clenched, “but can you _start_ before we talk about stopping, _please?_ ”

Otabek laughs lowly. “Pushy,” he chides, but his tone is pleased, approving. One hand tangles in Yuri’s hair, holding him still and close while he presses another kiss against his lips. He snakes the other around between their bodies, finding Yuri’s thigh, then his hip, then tracing the zip of Yuri’s jeans with the pad of his thumb. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Yuri says, arching forward. Otabek tightens his grip in his hair, steadying him, kissing him with maddening sweetness. He does it again, stroking up over him with a firm touch, and Yuri makes a lost sound against his mouth. Otabek undoes Yuri’s jeans in one quick, sharp movement and carefully slides his hand down, inside, gripping Yuri’s cock through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs and running his thumb up the length of him. 

“Wait, wait, fuck,” gasps Yuri, pulling back. Otabek freezes but doesn’t let him go. 

“You okay?” he asks. “Tell me.” His voice is so sure, so firm, that it makes Yuri feel even weaker. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, buries his face in Otabek’s neck. 

“I’m okay,” he manages to say, “I’m just - it’s - that feels -” The thought of finishing the sentence is so humiliating that it robs him of language altogether. Otabek’s still got one big, warm hand on his cock, and he’s so fucking close already, if he twitches a single finger it’s going to make him come.

Otabek hums thoughtfully. “Yura,” he says in that careful low voice, “has anyone ever touched you like this before?”

Yuri huffs out a breath. “Of course not. Nobody’s even - even kissed me like this before.” Otabek is silent. “If it wasn’t going to be you,” Yuri mutters, “what would be the point?” 

Otabek wrenches him back by the hair, forcing a shocked sound out of him. He kisses him again, harder this time, until Yuri’s dizzy and panting, drunk on sensation. It’s all he can do not to buck into Otabek’s hand and let it happen - by sheer force of will, he puts both hands on Otabek’s chest, pushing him away just enough to get his bearings. It’s excruciating, trying to hold back. He’s shaking all over.

“Okay,” Otabek says calmly. “I’m just going to say this aloud now, so you know that I know, and that this is perfectly okay: you’re not going to last very long this first time.” 

“I can,” Yuri grits out. 

Otabek smiles like a panther. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

“No I fucking _don’t,_ ” Yuri says - even to his own ears he sounds wild, desperate. 

“Then -” Otabek twists his wrist, reaching inside Yuri’s underwear and wrapping his hand fully around his cock. “Maybe I’m wrong,” he agrees mildly. Yuri moans, helpless, and Otabek smothers the sound with another kiss. He strokes him once, twice, and Yuri arches, coming all over Otabek’s fist.

He doesn’t even realize he’s made any noise until Otabek loosens his grasp on his hair to throw a hand over his mouth. “Shh,” he soothes, dropping a line of kisses down the side of Yuri’s neck, “people are going to think I’ve murdered you.”

Yuri collapses against him, sparks pinwheeling behind his eyes. “Haven’t you?” he mumbles.

Otabek’s laughing softly. “Oh my god, Yura, we’re just getting started,” he murmurs back. “Here -” he carefully maneuvers Yuri off his lap and down onto his back on the bed. He sits back on his heels, wiping his hands off on his shirt, which he pulls over his head and tosses away.

Yuri’s brain feels fuzzy and distant, but he still has sense enough to appreciate what’s in front of him. Otabek’s body is even better in person than in pictures, broad and muscled. Yuri reaches out a hand and strokes it over Otabek’s flat stomach. “Oh my god,” he repeats. “What about - what about you?” His voice comes out weak, raspy, but he can already feel himself starting to revive a little at the feel of Otabek’s skin under his fingers.

Otabek smiles, closing his eyes when Yuri touches him. “We’ve got time, haven’t we?” he asks. He picks up Yuri’s hand off his stomach and leans down to kiss it. Yuri answers by surging up and pulling Otabek down on top of him to kiss him properly. 

Otabek wraps him up in his arms - Yuri’s gotten taller, but he’s lean and narrow, slight compared to Otabek’s powerful frame - and rolls them onto their sides on the bed. He’s a solar flare, burning to the touch, all-engulfing. Yuri struggles out of his own shirt, and the heat of their bodies pressed together is almost unbearable. 

“So beautiful,” Otabek murmurs. Yuri twists against him, and his eyes fly open as he feels, with a start of recognition and pleasure, where Otabek’s hardness digs into his thigh. Otabek bites down on Yuri’s lip suddenly, making him gasp in pain.

“Did I hurt you?” Otabek asks urgently. “I’m so sorry, Yura, that just - that feels good, that surprised me, I didn’t mean to -”

“Do it again,” Yuri says breathlessly. 

Otabek’s eyes go wide, and then very, very dark. “You want…”

Yuri reaches down between them and grabs Otabek’s cock through his jeans. Otabek shudders, then sinks his teeth into Yuri’s shoulder, making him whimper. “Yes,” he breathes. He starts fumbling with the button of Otabek’s pants, fingers clumsy and unresponsive. He’s so desperate to touch him he’s trembling. “Please, please, Beka,” he whispers. 

“All right -” Otabek shoves Yuri’s hands away gently so he can wriggle out of the rest of his clothes. Yuri immediately starts doing the same, heart hammering. When they’re both fully undressed, Otabek looks him over with something not far removed from awe; Yuri’s sure his own expression matches. “Fuck, Yura, look at you,” he says, lips curving up, “you already want more?”

Yuri flushes, but nods all the same. He reaches out, runs his hands down Otabek’s chest, down over his stomach. “I want,” he starts, but barely knows how to finish. 

“Tell me,” says Otabek. “Tell me what you want so I can give it to you.” 

Yuri grabs Otabek’s arms, tugs at him until he’s pinning Yuri down on his back, their hips flush. Otabek makes a sound that he stifles behind his bitten lips. Yuri arches his back and Otabek leans in, bites the curve where his neck becomes his shoulder. Yuri chokes on a groan, pulling Otabek’s hips down so they grind together in a vicious, aching drag. Otabek’s hand slams down next to Yuri’s head, scrabbles for purchase. Yuri reaches up and over, takes it, and wraps it around his own throat. 

Otabek stares at him, wild-eyed. “This is what you want?” Yuri nods. He can feel Otabek’s cock twitch against his own. “Yura,” Otabek says hoarsely. 

“I don’t know why,” Yuri says in a small voice. He angles his hips up, and Otabek bites back another moan. His fingers tighten slightly around Yuri’s neck. “But I fucking _dream_ about this, Beka, I - I want you to - use me, I want it more than anything.” He shivers. He’s never felt this vulnerable, this on-display. It’s strangely electrifying, sending everything but the sensation far out of his mind. “Because I trust you, because I know you won’t hurt me. You couldn’t.” He brings Otabek’s face down close for a kiss. Otabek melts into him, pushing down on his throat and thrusting against him until Yuri’s squirming and gasping and seconds away from coming again. His head swims for oxygen, and every nerve feels raw, charged with electricity. “Oh my god, hang on,” he begs, nudging Otabek back slightly by the shoulder. 

“Fucking hell, Yura,” Otabek grates out, loosening his grip at once.

“I want to get you off,” Yuri pants. “Can I try?”

Otabek lets out a long, slow exhale. “Are you sure?” he asks lowly. “You don’t have to.” 

“I know I don’t have to, Beka.” He nips gently at his lower lip. “I want to.”

Otabek, with what seems like a great effort, lets go of Yuri and rolls off him, laying on his back beside him on the bed. Yuri carefully hoists himself up, raking his hair back off his face, and slings a leg over both of Otabek’s thighs. He gives him a serious look.

“Don’t let me look like an idiot,” he demands. “If I’m doing it wrong, you have to tell me.”

“What is it you want to do?” Otabek asks, and then his breath leaves him in a shudder as Yuri dips down and presses a kiss to his stomach. “Jesus Christ -” His hand flies out and squeezes Yuri’s wrist. “You don’t - want to try with your hand first?”

Yuri mouths another kiss over Otabek’s stomach, a little further down, near his hip. “Do you want me to use my hand instead?” he asks earnestly.

“No!” Otabek’s voice nearly cracks. Yuri’s never seen him so close to losing his composure. The thought of breaking him down like this makes him salivate. “Just that, you don’t have to, alright? And I mean it, Yura, you can stop any time - you can do anything you want -”

“Let me do this, then,” Yuri says. He pulls down the band of Otabek’s boxer briefs and wraps his hand around his cock. 

Otabek throws a hand over his eyes and inhales slowly. Yuri lets himself take it all in - his expression; the rise and fall of his chest; the weight of his cock, a little thicker than his own, hot in his hand. Then he leans in and licks a cautious stripe up the underside. 

Otabek makes a desperate sound, so Yuri does it again, and then again. He slides his hand down to the base of Otabek’s cock and carefully slips the head past his lips - he’s never done this before, but he’s seen a lot of porn, and has at least a passing notion of how these things are supposed to go.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Yura,” Otabek groans, taking his hand off his eyes and propping himself up on his elbows to watch him. Part of Yuri feels even more exposed now, self-conscious, but there’s a part of him too that likes this - being looked at, knowing that the sight of him doing this is turning Beka on even more. He sucks, lightly, and then a little harder when Beka’s foot twitches and his head falls back. 

Yuri knows what a blowjob looks like - anyone with a wifi password knows that much. But he's never seen one from this angle, never imagined how it would taste, salty but something else, something heavier. Never imagined how it would smell, either, or feel, the stretch of his lips around Otabek’s cock, the weight of him, the way he twitches on Yuri’s tongue when he licks him in a certain way. Or how it would sound - the quiet noises Beka’s making, almost pained, unbearably sweet. He opens his mouth a bit more, tries to relax his throat and take him a little deeper, and sort of half-chokes on his length. Otabek gasps. His hand goes to Yuri’s hair at once, strokes in long, gentle lines. 

“Whoa,” he says unsteadily, “easy, careful. Don't hurt yourself.” 

Yuri never heard a warning that didn't land as a challenge. 

He reaches up, puts his hand over Otabek’s in his hair, tightens it into a fist. Otabek watches him, mouth stunned open. Yuri holds his eyes, wills himself to relax every muscle, and swallows as much of Otabek’s cock as he can. 

Otabek’s head drops backward. The hand knotted in Yuri’s hair tightens, tugs. His hips thrust up toward Yuri’s mouth and he suddenly thinks he might be able to come again just doing this to Beka, just from the sounds he's making and the way his cock feels pushing deeper, filling him up -

“ _Fuck,_ ” hisses Otabek, wrenching Yuri up and off by the hair. Yuri catches himself on one arm, watching as Otabek comes, with a sound like a plea, over his own hand and stomach. His face is flushed, black hair a mess in his eyes. It's possibly the hottest thing Yuri’s ever seen. 

“I could have swallowed,” he says weakly. 

Otabek drags him down for another kiss. “Fucking hell,” he growls again. “What _are_ you?”

Yuri kisses back, breathless, smirking against his lips. “Thought I was a soldier. Isn't that right?” he asks. 

Otabek grabs him and slams him down on the bed so hard the headboard scrapes against the back wall. “I'm not sure that's what I'd call you,” he says, eyes glinting, and then he pins Yuri’s hips down and takes his cock to the back of his throat in one liquid movement. 

Yuri thinks it's to his credit that he lasts a little longer this time, maybe even a full minute, before he comes, sobbing for air, in Otabek’s mouth. 

Otabek swallows around him, holding his gaze with heavy-lidded eyes. When Yuri finally stops shuddering, he pulls off, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand and looking extremely satisfied. “You should see yourself right now,” he says. Yuri doesn't have the energy to respond, just holds his arms out. Otabek laughs softly. “Just a second, Yura.” He reaches off the bed, finds his discarded shirt, and gently towels them both off with it. “There,” he murmurs, sinking down into Yuri’s waiting arms and pulling him close. 

“Your shirt,” Yuri says. “It’s ruined.” He feels a bit sorry. It’s a good shirt, he thinks, black with a lion on it. 

“I’ve got others.” Otabek noses Yuri’s cheek. “I had a feeling I might need a couple extra.”

Yuri’s eyes drop closed. He feels warm, safe, some grasping bittersweet thing that might be love. Or might just be endorphins. He snuggles closer, fitting his head under Beka’s chin to nuzzle his chest. “Fuck skating,” he mumbles. “Fuck the Grand Prix. Let’s quit and stay right here forever.”

Otabek laughs, the rumble resonating through Yuri’s whole body. “I know you don't mean that,” he says. “Though it's tempting.” He's quiet for a moment. Yuri starts to drift off, then something occurs to him. He cracks one eye open. 

“You said,” he says slowly, “you never thought you could have me.” He raises his head to look at Otabek. “But that's ridiculous.” 

Otabek grins, brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because!” Yuri props himself up on Otabek’s chest. “Because I practically threw myself at you and you told me you just wanted to be friends!”

“Yes, when you were _fifteen,_ ” Otabek says, frowning. “And then you never mentioned it again. I figured you just got over me. I was sure if you were interested, you would've responded to all my flirting.” 

Yuri’s jaw drops. “What flirting?” he demands. “You never flirted with me!”

“Of course I did,” says Otabek, looking a little hurt. “I sent you music. And cat photos.”

“That's not flirting!” says Yuri hotly. “That's just...that’s just cute stuff!”

Otabek leans in and nips at Yuri’s earlobe, making him shiver. “Maybe it's not as obvious as ‘come to Russia and smack me around,’” he says dryly. 

Yuri’s face heats up. “What's wrong with being direct?” he asks. Otabek bites harder. Yuri squirms, grinning. “It gets you what you want, doesn't it?”

“Seems to work for you,” Otabek agrees in a level tone. He presses a kiss against Yuri’s jaw. Embarrassingly, Yuri stifles a yawn as he does. Otabek chuckles. “You bored of me already, Yura?”

“Fuck you, I’m jet lagged,” Yuri protests, cuddling close to Otabek and letting his eyes close again. 

Otabek kisses his hair. “Sleep,” he says gently. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“But maybe later you could smack me around, if you’re up for it,” adds Yuri innocently, grinning as Otabek tightens his hold on him. 

“Oh, if _I’m_ up for it, huh?” Otabek hums. Yuri starts thinking of a smart reply, but before he can get it out he’s almost totally asleep. 

\---

They don't spend the entire two days before the Trophée in bed.

Some of it they carve out to skate. Some of it, too, they spend in the cafe near the hotel, practicing their French on the increasingly annoyed waitstaff, brushing knees under the table. 

Some of it, Otabek pulls out his laptop and plays Yuri the remixes he's working on, and Yuri dances around their little room for him. (They end up back in bed pretty shortly after.)

Some of it they spend in the shower. 

They spend an hour walking through a nearby park, shoulder to shoulder, quietly arguing: 

(“You’re too cautious. I know what I can handle. I know what I want.” 

“Yura.” Otabek shoots him a sharp look. “You really want to risk losing because you couldn’t wait a couple days?”

“I wouldn’t lose.” Yuri glares right back. “I never lose.”

Otabek calmly steers them into some trees, out of view, and then shoves him hard against the nearest trunk. Yuri makes a shocked noise that quickly turns into a laugh, then sputters out again as Otabek presses his whole weight into him. 

“ _After_ the Trophée,” he says in a low, even voice, “I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk, let alone skate. Is that what you want?”

“Christ, Beka,” hisses Yuri, even as his brain screams _yes, yes, yes._

“But I’m not interested in watching you place behind me, Katsuki, and _Minami_ because you’re impatient and end up too sore to skate your best.” He steps back. Yuri fights to stay on his feet. “So you’re going to have to wait. I’m not going to risk hurting you.” He gives him a strange look. “What are you smiling about?”

Yuri shakes his head, holding back a grin. “Just imagining Victor trying to do damage control, explaining to the press why I’ve had my worst-ever showing. The lecture I'd get after.” Otabek’s lips twitch. Yuri goes on, imitating Victor’s voice - “‘ _Yuuurio_ , I was getting fucked up the ass my _entire career,_ do you think I _ever_ let it affect my skating?’”

Otabek snorts with laughter. The tension dissolves into the air like smoke. “You're right, I'm being stupid,” Yuri agrees. “After the Trophée, fine.” 

It’s kind of nice to admit he’s wrong, actually, when he gets such a glowing look from Otabek as a reward.)

But most of the time they spend on the mattress in the middle of the hotel room, trying to stretch out each minute as far as it’ll go. They talk. They sleep, Otabek curled around Yuri like he’s trying to shield him from the entire world. They learn each other’s bodies the way Yuri’s learned everything his entire life, through dedicated practice and a drive to be the absolute best at whatever he’s attempting. Yuri loses count of how many times they make each other come, how many hours they spend kissing. Time starts to feel elliptical, golden and delicate, even as it drives ruthlessly forward. Otabek tells him about his family in Almaty, stories from his childhood that bring a faraway look to his face. Yuri talks about Grandpa, lets Otabek hold him close when he gets a little choked up about missing him. 

He feels - seen. Known. He sees and knows, too. And as they wake up together on the morning of the competition, Yuri feels a stab of panic. 

“You have to come to Russia,” he says. Otabek squints at him. 

“Of course,” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes. “And you’re going to visit me in Almaty.” 

“No,” Yuri says. His heart hammers against his ribs. “That’s not what I mean. You have to come to Russia, and you can train at our rink, and we - if I win, when I win, I’ll use some of the money to find you a place to stay.” He nods emphatically, putting it together in his head. “I have some saved up.” 

Otabek kisses his forehead and then rolls out of bed. He stretches, throwing the hard lines of his muscled back into sharp relief in the morning light. Yuri is suddenly consumed with something like terror.

“Come back to bed,” he orders. “Come here, kiss me.” 

“We have to get ready, Yura,” Otabek says over his shoulder. 

“Stop!” Yuri sits up, knee-walks to the edge of the bed. “Beka, come back.”

“Come talk to me in the shower,” Otabek says. “We can’t be late.”

“Say you’ll come to Russia or I’m not getting out of this bed!” Yuri demands.

Otabek’s laughing as he shucks off his underwear and walks into the bathroom. “Stay, then,” he says. “Maybe then I can finally win gold.” 

Yuri feels, to his horror, his eyes starting to prickle. “Beka.” His voice comes out small and quivering. Otabek turns around, all the mirth faded from his face.

“Yura?” he says softly. 

“Don’t leave me,” Yuri croaks. “Please, please.” 

“Yura, my god, I’m sorry,” Otabek coos, crossing to him at once and folding him into his arms. “What’s happening? Why are you so upset?”

“This can’t be over.” Yuri pushes his face against Otabek’s chest. “You can’t leave.” 

Otabek leans down, angles his face up for a kiss. “Nothing’s over,” he says gently. “Yura, it’s just starting.” 

Yuri digs his nails into his palms. “I’m so - everything’s - I get so angry when I’m not with you!” he bursts out. “Nothing else makes sense. You can’t go back to Kazakhstan. You can’t.”

Otabek cuddles him close until his breathing levels out. “First of all,” he says, “I’m not leaving _yet._ You and I have plans tonight, remember?” Yuri flushes, looking away. “And secondly, just because I have to go back to Almaty it doesn’t mean you’ll be alone.” He kisses Yuri again, holding his eyes. “You have Yuuri and Victor.” 

“I hate them,” Yuri snaps.

“Right, of course.” Otabek’s smiling a little. “Even so, it’s impossible. I couldn’t leave you. I’d never. You’re - when I’m exhausted, and ready to quit, I think about you. Did you know that?”

Yuri blinks up at him. He shakes his head. Otabek nods, tucks a strand of Yuri’s hair back out of his face. “I think to myself, ‘Yura would be furious if I don't make it to the Grand Prix this year. If I don't go to Worlds, I won't see Yura. Just one more run, one more good push.’ I can't leave you, Yura, because you never leave me. You understand?”

Yuri’s never wanted to cry because of something nice before. It's a completely stupid way to feel. But he leans into the touch when Otabek thumbs his tears away. “Fuck,” he sniffles, “I must look so pathetic.”

Otabek shakes his head. “Why do you think I wanted to be friends first?” he murmurs. “You really think I'd disappear now that we have this? Give me a little credit.”

Yuri shrugs, embarrassed. Otabek kisses him once, very softly. “Now come on. Your Angels are waiting.”

“Don’t call them that, it gives them power,” Yuri spits, grinning against his best efforts. “They're a bunch of nutcases who can't take a hint.” Still, he allows himself to be pulled into the shower, into the reassuring heat of steam, water, Otabek’s touch. 

\---

Victor and Katsuki exchange a very pointed look when Yuri joins them by the rink before warm-ups. They seem to have an entire conversation with just their eyes - a long one - but out loud Victor only says, generously, “How are you, Yurio?” 

“Don't be a pain in the ass,” Yuri mutters, rolling his neck and shoulders, “I’m not telling you anything.”

“Suits me,” Victor says cheerily. “The only thing I'm concerned with is that axel in the back half - see how you feel after warm-ups, but I’m thinking we could make it a combo to knock that personal best up a little higher. It's still early enough in the season that we can change it back if it doesn't work. What do you think?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Yuri says. His eyes track Otabek on the far side of the holding room. Less than an hour ago they were making out against the wall of their shower, bodies pressed close. Now Otabek’s talking seriously to his coach, stretching his muscles out and looking every inch the fearsome, stoic competitor he is. Like none of it happened. Yuri feels torn between admiration and a wrenching sadness.

Then Otabek catches him looking, and his face changes - his eyes soften, and he gives Yuri a tiny, faithful smile. Yuri grins back tightly. Something sparks up in his chest. 

Katsuki nudges Yuri, and when Yuri glances at him he sees his expression, fond and maybe sort of proud. The glowing feeling in Yuri’s ribcage expands, and, surely as much to his own surprise as the pig’s, he wraps Katsuki up in a hug.

“Yurio,” says Katsuki, shocked and happy, squeezing him right back. Behind him, Victor chuckles, but doesn't speak. Yuri holds on tightly for just a second, thinking _thank you, thank you,_ before pulling away. 

“He and I are going to destroy you,” Yuri says breathlessly. “Nobody’s even going to remember you existed after today. We’re going to _erase_ you, Katsudon.” 

Katsuki and Victor exchange another look, and then the pig shrugs. “Ah, well,” he sighs, though it seems like he may be holding back a smirk. “Guess I had a good run.” 

“Warm-up time,” Victor says. He’s not even trying to bridle his own amusement. “Come on. Go make me proud.” 

Katsuki presses his lips to his wedding ring, like always. Yuri just gives Victor a serious nod. In the adjoining rink, there’s booming music, the contained roar of applause. As they all move toward the entrance, Otabek sidles up beside him, soft as a shadow. 

“Davai,” he says quietly. “I adore you.” 

Yuri looks around him at Katsuki and Victor, at Otabek, then out at the rink. He searches his whole body for anxiousness, fear, the familiar weather of rage that usually drives him. But he can't find any. Instead, there’s a lightness, a sense of something like home - he squeezes Otabek’s hand, so happy he can't do anything but laugh. 

Then, he steps out onto the ice and takes flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading. feedback is extremely appreciated.


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